


Letting You In

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Crossdressing, Humiliation, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Omorashi, Psychoanalysis, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[DISCONTINUED] College students John and Dave are on a road trip, heading to Rose’s beach house for some fun in the sun. Along the way, John discovers a long-repressed kink and must come to terms with it, as well as his attraction to Dave. But Dave isn’t on the vanilla side of life either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ==> John: Get the expository shit out of the way

CHAPTER I

**== >** **John:** **Get the expository shit out of the way**

Your name is John Egbert and you've been unwittingly thrown into a road trip by none other than your best bro, Dave Strider.

After finishing up your first year at UCLA, you're meeting up with your friends Rose Lalonde and Jade Harley at the Lalondes' summer home. It's situated on Lake Champlain in Plattsburgh, New York which, in case you haven't noticed, is all the way across the country. You assumed you'd fly there since it's much farther away than Washington or Texas, but no, your roommate had other plans.

Of course, he didn't tell you his plans - that would've spoiled the fun - but he did ask Rose and Jade to play along so you were completely in the dark. He swore he bought the plane tickets, so you believed him and packed your bags, jumping into the car at five A.M. to catch the alleged flight. It was only after you rifled through his stuff looking for the tickets and almost had a panic attack when you couldn't find them that he told you the truth.

Instead of a six-hour flight, you guys were in for a four-day road trip for "ironic purposes".

You were so pissed. You exchanged barbs with Dave until you devolved into full-out shouting at him, hating how he kept his cool while you called him a fucking hipster who thought commercial airlines were "too mainstream". He listened with a straight face as you ranted about his obsession with irony and how you couldn't stand it when he pulled shit like this. It wasn't until you finally ran out of steam that he spoke again.

"Would you rather get molested by the TSA and deal with a goddamn baby screaming in your ear for six hours or spend four days on the road with your best bro who, by the way, put a ton of fucking thought into this?"

As he focused on the road, fingers tight around the steering wheel, you realized Dave wasn't doing this out of irony. Yes, he didn't want to deal with the pat-downs and shrieking kids, but that wasn't it.

He just wanted to spend time together, away from any distractions.

Unsure what to say, you sighed and rubbed the back of your neck. You broke the awkward silence with an apology, but made it clear that while a four-day drive with your best friend sounded awesome, whatever intentions he had, you just wished he'd asked first. You wanted to feel like your opinion mattered.

Dave said you'd have to be a goddamn idiot to think he didn't care what you thought. To prove it, he told you to open the red duffel bag in the back seat. You raised an eyebrow as you slid the zipper open and god, were you surprised.

Inside the bag was a portable DVD player, a menagerie of Matthew McConaughey and Nicolas Cage movies, and the authentic stuffed rabbit from the actual set of _Con Air_ , which Dave got you back on your thirteenth birthday.

You would've tackled him with a bro hug right then and there if it wouldn't have caused a major crash. Better to save that for the last day of the trip, like in the movies.

So, you put on _Con Air_ and forced Dave to reenact the final scene with you, music and everything. He'd complied without complaint and you swore he was trying so hard not to laugh, already losing the battle against smiling. You're just glad he was willing to entertain the whims of a dork like you.

Of course, that only lasted for so long. When you stopped for gas, he threw the keys at your chest. The message was clear: _Your turn to drive._

So, with the fight forgotten and the parkway wide open, you embarked on the official start of the road trip of all road trips.

Still, you've decided that next year, Rose and Jade are coming to California. Aside from avoiding another fight over transportation, you want to show them all the gorgeous beaches, from Venice to Cabrillo. You like to imagine the four of you running around in the water like it's a film shoot for a low-budget music video.

Well, everyone but Dave because unlike you, he would rather create sick beats with his turntables than go to the beach. In fact, he's "too cool to frolic in the ocean". He won't go unless you beg him to, and even then he just sits on a towel in a t-shirt and black jeans, watching you flail in the surf through the Ben Stiller shades you bought him years ago.

You thought the irony would have worn off by now, but here he is nine years later, resting in the passenger seat with the same shades over his eyes.

So here you are, only three hours into your part of the drive with a purposely shitty mix CD Dave made blasting out the windows. ("A man can only take so much Nic Cage," he'd said as he slipped it in, and although it was fun to riff on "California Gurls" and "Call Me Maybe", you're getting strange urges to smack the stereo with a hammer). Now he's telling you to take the next exit to get some McDonalds.

You have no problem with that, signaling as you shift into the exit lane. The car glides down the ramp as you follow the signs, the Golden Arches to your right. Once you pull into the drive-through, Dave tells you that you're getting happy meals. You don't know why, but you have a hunch it has something to do with being ironic.

You decide to entertain him.

**== > ** **Order happy meals to be ironic**

"Welcome to McDonalds," a woman's voice crackles through the intercom. "How can I help you today?"

"Hi, I'd like to order two happy meals. Both with apple juice, McNuggets and fries."

"Make sure to throw in a Rainbow Dash toy," Dave says, climbing over your lap to reach the intercom. In doing so, he makes sure to elbow you in the face, just enough to knock your glasses off-balance.

"Dude, chill," you say as you push him off, fixing your glasses. "You'll get what you get."

"No, man, it has to be Rainbow Dash." You raise an eyebrow and chuckle.

"Man, when did you become such a brony?" You can't see his eyes behind his shades, but you know he's rolling them.

"It's not for me, dumbass. I want to make my bro flip his shit, and he won't unless it's Rainbow Dash."

"I can't imagine your bro flipping his shit over anything."

"Of course not," Dave says, thrusting his index finger in your face. "That's the Striders' number one rule: never break face, never let anyone inside your head."

Now it's your turn to roll your eyes.

"Sorry, I'm missing the ironic point here."

"That's because your idea of irony is making a Nic Cage bear at Build-A-Bear Workshop."

"Come on! That was totally ironic!"

" _Sir_!"

You both jump as the intercom bursts to life. The lady does not sound pleased.

"Sir, you're holding up the line. Will that be all?"

"Yes," you answer, a bit sheepish. She gives you your total (ten bucks for two happy meals, she's got to be kidding you) and you drive up to the next window.

Or at least you would if there weren't a million cars in front of you. You groan. Someone's trying to pay exact change again, and oops, they just can't seem to find that dime.

"Holding up the line," Dave mutters, folding his arms behind his head. "Like it's that big a deal." You snort.

"Says the guy who demanded a Rainbow Dash toy."

"Shut up, you don't know my bro. I'm going to rub her in his fucking shades. I'll take her everywhere I go - to the table, to the bathroom, to my fucking bed. And it will drive him batshit. He won't show it, no, a Strider never shows it, but I'll know it and he'll know it and that's all that fucking matters."

Shifting onto his knees, Dave leans in and stares you in the eye. This close, you can see through his shades and man, no matter how many times you've seen his eyes, you can't get over that striking red color. You've learned to shut up by now because aside from smuppets, there is nothing Dave hates more than when people gush about his eyes.

"So," Dave says, his voice sinking to a husky tone, finger pressed lightly against your chest, "there better be a Rainbow Dash in my happy meal."

You convince yourself that this isn't the slightest bit attractive

"Geez, such a smooth talker," you say with a nervous smirk as you smack his finger away. "Better stop before you make me swoon."

"Don't fight it. All the bitches drop their panties once they hear the name 'Strider'."

"Oh, just take me now!" you cry, clutching your heart with all the cheesy mock-drama you can muster. "I can't bear to wait another minute!"

You see him fight the smile weaving its way onto his face. He loses it for a moment, a split second of an upturned grin before he sets it straight again.

"Sorry, I'm not that easy," he says, legs spread and arms propped on the arm rests. "It's going to take more than a happy meal to get in these pants."

"What if I bought you a new set of turntables for Christmas?"

"Damn, you drive a hard bargain. I just might have to bump you up the Strider to-do list."

You laugh, but after a few seconds he adds, "Literally."

That makes you pause. It's something that would usually roll off your back, but it's clinging to the cliff of your shoulder instead. You guys joke about this all the time, pretending Dave's a major stud and you're some swooning schoolgirl, but something's different this time.

It's like there was more weight behind the word.

**== >** **Affirm Dave's intent**

"...Literally?" you ask, testing the waters. You don't think Dave is serious, but you want to ease the uncertainty (uncertainty, yes, it's only uncertainty) running through you.

Dave doesn't respond. He doesn't dole out a snappy one-liner or prolong the joke. Instead, he gives you the same old poker face, the one that says, " _No, not literally, you dumbass_."

You let out your breath, your shoulders slumping in relief as you chuckle and say, "I know, I know." But for a second there you really didn't know. You want to hit your head against the dashboard. You've known the guy for nine years and you still have moments like these, unable to discern between sarcasm and sincerity. Sometimes there really is more weight behind his words than he lets on.

The same goes for you. When you call him a smooth talker, you're not entirely joking. You like the rhythm of his voice, fit for a rapper of his skill level. It's without a hint of the exaggerated Southern drawl you expected from a Texan. Dave says it's just another faction of his awesome irony, but you wonder if you should blame your assumption on movie stereotypes and bad reality TV.

You finally reach the pay window. It's a quick exchange, the cash for the happy meals, because unlike whoever was holding up the line, you have the money at the ready. You pull into a parking space to inspect your goods. Dave goes straight for the toy while you grab your apple juice and take a sip, tangy perfection.

"Shit, that bitch gave me Applejack," Dave gripes, a clear grimace on his face. You can't help but laugh as he pushes the pony's voice button, her Southern accent painfully reminiscent of Texas. It's the epitome of irony.

"Ha, ha, looks like even you can't smooth talk _all_ the ladies!"

"Please, I've had more dates than you've had wet dreams, and that's saying something."

You flinch, glaring as your face burns. That struck a chord. As roommates, it's a well-known fact between you two that this hasn't been a dry year for you.

The worst part was that half the time they weren't even sex dreams. Classmates you'd never even talked to would start pissing and you'd wake up with a personal pair of hot pants. According to a forum you frequent, wet dreams involving piss without sex happened a lot, so that made you feel a little better. It just meant you'd have to walk around for a week apologizing to people in your head for what your subconscious did to them.

One of the few times you actually had a sex dream, you woke up with Dave next to your bed, looking down at you. You remember how he asked as a joke if it'd been about him and how mortified you were when you choked out, "Yes."

He gave you the weirdest stare and then you babbled incoherently as you tried to explain that no, you weren't into him, it was just your brain fucking with you. You remember he tried to calm you down by playing it cool, telling you it was okay. It was one of the rare times he looked genuinely concerned. You figure he felt bad for teasing you since you'd practically burst into tears.

Fuck, you're pathetic.

"Y-Yeah, but at least I've had girlfriends!" you sputter, trying to save face. "Real long-term relationships!"

"Look at you, sweet-talkin', sugar-coated candyman," Dave deadpans as he stabs his apple juice with a straw and takes a sip.

"Oh yeah, I've got lips like sugarcane."

"Good things come for boys who wait."

"Ha!" You spy a hint of blue plastic in your happy meal and grab it, holding it up in victory. "Here's to that - I got Rainbow Dash!"

"Who's the candyman now? Hand her over."

"No way. My meal, my toy."

Dave stares at you in silence as you dangle the spunky pony in the air with a wide grin. You wait for his ninja-like reflexes, snatching it away before his fingers can seize it. Your smile grows even wider on the second try.

"Fuck you, Egbert. I thought you were the pranking master. Here I am, a humble swagmaster in desperate need to make his bro flip a shit, and instead of helping me on my noble quest, you leave me out to dry. Rude, man. Just rude."

"I think you're in desperate need of a dictionary if you think you're humble."

"Burn. Third-degree. I better check into the intensive care ward because shit, that burn is sizzling like a freshly smacked plush rump."

"Oh my god, don't bring smuppet porn into this," you beg, laughing.

"Oh, it's into this all right," he says as he grabs your shoulders in the most dramatic fashion possible, "into this like all the nose dicks I saw violating the world's plushest rumps. Do you have any idea how much smuppet porn I had to go through to find his pony folder? I have seen the levels of hell, all fucking seven of them and shit, the tamest ones are BDSM and watersports."

Your laughter tapers off as you realize he's not joking, your grin replaced by a look of disbelief.

"That's right, I've seen smuppet bondage, gags, blindfolds - all that shit. I've seen smuppets purposely rigged to piss all over each other until they're soaked with kidney juice. I've seen it all."

As you take in the information, you can't help but feel disturbed and at the same time...flustered. You chalk it up to your dislike of bathroom talk. You tend to slap your hands over your ears if someone gets too descriptive about their exploits on the john.

Oh. Nice pun. Very nice. Dave would be so proud. And by proud, you mean he would shake his head in solemn silence for your now-deceased shred of wit.

Still, you note that you're not really disgusted right now. You just feel... _off_. Unsettled. You don't know how to explain it, other than that it makes you want to change the topic as soon as possible.

You don't have to. As you're lost in thought, Dave makes use of his stealth and snatches the Rainbow Dash toy right from your fingers. You're so shocked that you yelp and drop your apple juice, which he grabs before it hits the ground.

"Dave!" You shout, watching him drink both of your juice boxes at the same time. Rainbow Dash sits perched on his shoulder. Her spunky smile mocks you.

"Serves you right, denying a bro in need."

"Bluh, you suck."

He makes an obnoxious sucking noise with the two straws as if to agree with you. You roll your eyes, groan, and grab your fries instead. Whatever. You're not that thirsty anyway.

Shit, these fries are salty.

**== >** **Get back on the road**

You finish your meal, throw out the trash and, after deciding you guys don't need a bathroom break, get back on the road. It's going to take at least four days to get to New York, and that's without factoring in traffic. You don't have any time to waste. Setbacks must be kept to a minimum.

Twenty minutes later, you're stuck in stand-still traffic. So much for that.

Your eye follows the lines of stationary cars down the road in search of the source. It isn't long before you realize this isn't a simple merge or construction zone issue. It's much more complicated than that.

You switch to the radio and scan the airwaves until you find the traffic channel. It turns out there's been a huge collision way ahead of you and cars are backed up for miles. You both groan. This blows. You could be stuck here for hours.

**== >** **Be stuck here for hours**

You've been slowly inching forward for two and a half hours now, entertaining yourselves with rap battles, Truth or Truth (your dares pretty much resulted in shit like "bleat like a goat"), and the Story Game. Now, you've run out of fodder, so you're stuck with a banal game of I-Spy.

"Dave."

He doesn't respond. You figure he's bored, the way he gazes out the window, though you'd like to think you're more interesting than a bunch of trees.

"Dave," you say, a little more forceful this time. He turns to you.

"What?" The word is sharp, annoyed. You feel a little intimidated.

"...Uh, it's your turn."

"Fine. I spy with my little eye a dork named John Egbert."

You raise an eyebrow. Well, that was rude.

"You okay?" The last time you saw him this irritable, he was neck-deep in a pile of smuppets. It was a great prank, but you paid for it dearly.

"Fucking peachy," he snaps. "Like a steamy cobbler fresh off the bakery rack."

You decide to back off. He's probably just pissy because you're stuck in traffic.

It's ten more minutes before you notice the tension in Dave's shoulders. You see his fingers grip the upholstery and every now and then he readjusts his seatbelt with a grimace, as if it's cutting into his abdomen.

What spikes your curiosity the most is that he won't stop staring out the window. His neck strains to the right, past the line of cars, so you stretch your own to see what's caught his eye. All you find is a sign on the side of the road:

**REST AREA - 2 MILES**

It doesn't click until you look at him again. There's a certain stress running through his thin frame, from his claw-like fingers to his pressed-together thighs.

Oh.

"You know what?" you say as a wide grin breaks out on your face. "It's my turn. I spy with my little eye a guy who should've used that bathroom back at McDonalds."

Dave's head snaps toward you and you can feel the blaze of his glare behind those shades. Looks like you got inside his head. So much for that number one Strider rule.

"Fuck you, I have a Strider-patented bladder of steel."

"Ha, that's some weak steel if you're squirming over two juice boxes!"

"I haven't pissed since three A.M., so how about you shut up and drive the fucking car?"

You do shut up, but that's because you're attempting math during the summer. You left the house at five and you've been on the road for ten hours now, so it's around three in the afternoon.

Twelve hours.

He hasn't pissed in half a day.

"Strider-patented bladder of steel," he says, a little smug.

"Dude, that can't be healthy!"

"My bladder's on a completely different level than your mediocre urine sack. It's the goddamn king of all bladders, holding all his liquor, downing all the shots."

You roll your eyes. "Whatever, this is your car. I'm not cleaning it up if you pee yourself."

The words feel strange as they roll off your tongue. You're not sure why you chose them. You almost wish you hadn't said them.

You sigh and focus on the road.

There's not much to focus on, just a bunch a cars stopping and stalling. You often glance back to Dave, who is preoccupied by his situation. One of his hands curls into a fist as the other gives his crotch an occasional squeeze. As the minutes pass, the number of squeezes increases until he's constantly holding himself, and the more you watch, the more you sense a stirring inside that you haven't quite placed yet.

"Fuck!"

You jump as Dave shouts, both hands between his legs, a stifled whine in the back of his throat. You observe how he trembles, teeth grit, eyebrows knit, his head thrown back and spine arched as he fights a wave of urgency. You sit in silence, awestruck by the scene in front of you and once again, something's... _off_.

Then you feel it.

There's a twitch, a familiar tension against your jeans, and a light flush on your face as your confusion grows by the second. This doesn't make sense. There's no reason for you to get turned on right now, unless it's one of those "surprise erections".

Dave lets out a shaky sigh as the worst of the wave passes, his posture still rigid and legs clasped tight. You watch him squirm in his seat, hands pressed between his thighs, panting softly. A strained sound escapes him and you freeze up.

_Fuck_ , that twitch was strong.

**== >** **Realize how fucked up you are**

Unfortunately, you're way too naive to realize how fucked up you are.

In fact, the voice in your head screaming, " _Danger! Danger! You're heading into fucked-up territory_!" is completely drowned out by the one panting, " _Oh god, so turned on._ "

You grip the steering wheel harder as you watch him fidget. He rubs his legs together, hands digging into his crotch as his neck strains to survey the lines of stopped cars. The " **REST AREA - NEXT RIGHT** " sign is a cruel reminder and he scowls at it, too focused on his predicament to maintain his stoic mask. Lucky for you, this also means he hasn't noticed the fine tent in your pants.

The traffic starts to move again. It takes a few seconds for you to roll the car forward. After all, you were too busy watching the imminent accident in front of you, almost thankful for the one that put you in this situation.

Then you feel bad for thinking such a thing because the people in the crash could be really hurt. They could be in a coma or bleeding on the pavement. They could be clinging to a stuffed rabbit for dear life in hopes of giving it to their daughter. Oh god, now you're worried Nicolas Cage was in the car crash.

"Egbert."

"Huh?" you ask, brought back to your senses. Dave is staring at you and from the way he's trembling, legs crossed, it's clear he's in a bad state. "What?"

"Pull the car over," he says, trying to keep his cool, but the desperation leaks straight through. You like this tone to his voice, breathy, the pitch higher than usual.

"Dude, there's a rest stop up ahead. Just hold it."

"My bladder's about to let go like a sexually-repressed businessman at the annual holiday party, and you want me to fucking hold it." His voice is laced with venom, but the sharp hitch in his breath almost makes you shudder.

"We're bumper-to-bumper in the middle lane, so I'm sorry, but you don't really have a choice. We're almost past the crash, so chill."

He groans but doesn't argue. His legs are restless, changing positions every few seconds. He practically bounces in the seat, and the rustle of his jeans reminds you of your own need for friction.

You inch the car forward every few seconds, trying to match the gradual incline of speed as the cars in the front observe the accident and then zip away. Dave starts to whimper and each time it goes straight to your cock. You glance at him as he massages his crotch, a tight grasp intermittent with strokes and shaky breaths. His hips rock against the seat, rolling into his hands, and you just want to tear them away and watch him piss.

"Oh my fucking god, stop staring and fucking _move_!" Dave shouts at the other drivers, unable to mask his desperation anymore. All of his efforts are into keeping his pants dry. Just the thought makes you throb harder, and you suppress a groan. You try not to think about how the hiss of his urine would sound inside his jeans, flooding over his hands to form a warm puddle under his thighs.

Shit, he's not the only one losing control.

In a moment you thought would never come, you finally reach the end of the traffic. You hurry past the accident, not even sparing a glance. Okay, so you took a quick glance. One of the cars had been reduced to a smoking exoskeleton. That's not something you can just ignore.

There are a lot of things you can't just ignore right now.

"Okay, now hold on," you say, as much to yourself as it is to him. "We're almost there."

"Pull the car over."

"But the rest stop-"

"Pull the fucking car over!"

"Dave, it's right there, just-"

" _John_!"

That grabs your attention. If calling you by your first name weren't enough of a clue, the strangled cry on his lips as he hunches over with a death-grip on his crotch is a downright confession.

"John, it's coming out, _please_!"

Twitch.

Fuck, he's seriously going to pee his pants if you don't pull over _right now_. That thought paired with the desperate pleas spilling out of his mouth makes your throbbing cock swell even more. It's funny, almost ironic, how you're both not going to last much longer.

Scratch that, this is so not funny. You need to pull over right now if you don't want to crash and have the autopsy report conclude it another case of "Death by Boner".

**== > Pull over, asshole**

You immediately signal and shift into the right lane before skidding to the side. Dave is out before you can even stop the car, over the rail and down the hill. You curse and leave the keys in the ignition as you follow him down because watching Dave piss himself is suddenly higher on the priority echeladder than making sure no one steals the car.

It's official. You're a horrible person.

Your boner rubs against your jeans as you sprint, and fuck, you're dangerously close to the edge. A few more twitches and you'll become an honorary member of The Lonely Island, your jizz-soaked pants a temporary badge. You don't even care. All you can think about is Dave and the gorgeous scene about to unfold.

"No, fuck, _fuck_!" Dave screams as he skids to a stop, fumbling with his fly, his legs pressed together in a futile attempt to hold off the inevitable. You catch up in a second and, stopped in your tracks, see the first spurts stain his crotch as the flood releases.

Oh god, you can _hear_ it.

You watch the wet patch grow as Dave pees down his legs, the urine's definite hiss interspersed with whimpering curses and sharp cries. Spurts stream down from his soaked crotch until he finally forces his fly open, and you see the thick yellow torrent gush out of his cock, hear it splash against the grass as he moans with relief, and oh god, oh _fuck_ , you're going over the edge-

**== > Become an honorary member of The Lonely Island**

You manage to duck behind a tree, your body to the bark and your teeth to your hand as you lose control. Air rushes through your nose as you try to breathe, the orgasm so intense that you almost scream as your cock twitches harder than ever. You release, hips rolling against the slickened fabric in a warm but disgusting ecstasy as you ride it out.

And then it's over, the sound of Dave's piss splatter overlapping your hushed pants as you try to process, your pulse pounding in your neck, your blue eyes half-closed in the remnants of pleasure.

Jesus Christ, you've never climaxed so hard in your life.

**== > Realize how fucked up you are**


	2. ==> Realize how fucked up you are

CHAPTER II

**== > Realize how fucked up you are**

You have a piss fetish.

The words are foreign as they enter your mind. You pant in the afterglow, your mind in too much of a haze to deal with this turn of events, but the words refuse to leave. No matter how many times they repeat themselves you don’t get used to them.

Your hand sort of hurts from how hard you bit down on it, but it’s nothing compared to the disgusting feel of your jeans. You grimace as you shift your leg. Lucky for you, the jizz hasn’t soaked through, but you don’t want to spend another moment with these slimy boxers against your skin.

You hear Dave’s stream trickle off, his heavy breath the only other sound besides the rush of the road. Cautious, you peek around the side of the tree.

Dave stands before you as he tucks himself back in, a disgusted curse under his breath. With an audible zip of his jeans, he sighs and looks to you. His composure is shot; his blonde hair is mussed and his cheeks are bright red. You can’t help but notice the damage done to his jeans.

Aside from the huge wet patch on the front, one of his legs is completely soaked and fuck, you just want to squeeze his crotch and watch the piss spill out. You want to feel its warmth flow over your fingers. You want to see the utter humiliation on his face as you click your tongue and, with the most patronizing smirk ever, ask him if his bro never taught him not to pee his pants.

Jesus, you just thought that.

You avert your eyes from his pants, your face as flushed as his. This is a delicate situation. You don’t want him to get mad at you, or worse, figure out you got off on it.

Dave waits for you to speak and judging by the tension in his body, he’s expecting the worst. You swear his face is even redder now as he stares at the ground, biting his lip. There’s a slight tremor to his shoulders. You wonder if he’s trying not to cry, and the thought instantly blows your mind because you can’t even imagine it. Striders don’t cry.

But you know how much he cares about his image. Dave’s quite convincing in the role of  apathetic cool guy, and though it’s fact that his swag is no act, his reputation means the world to him. He can’t stand to look ridiculous, and that’s a difficult feat when your pants are soaked with your own urine.

You wonder if this could be the thing that breaks him. Even more, you wonder how he would react if you really did say what was on your mind. It’s not something you’re willing to test, but the more you wait, the worse the silence gets.

“Would you just say it already?”

You flinch, caught off-guard by the nervous tone of his voice. “Say what?”

“I don’t know,” he spits with a bit more bite now, “whatever’s on your shitting mind. I’m a big boy. I can fucking take it.”

Somehow, you doubt that.

You need time to collect your thoughts, so you stuff your hands in your pockets and focus on the grass, how it bends under your feet. As you shift your weight, your boxers glide over your crotch and the sensation forces your mouth into a frown. It’s so uncomfortable. Everything is uncomfortable, from your pants to the situation at hand. You just want to fast-forward through it all. You don’t want to deal with it.

“John.”

He’s calling your name. You ignore him. You will yourself to abscond through the ground so you can deal with this on your own time, on your own terms. Dave stares at you. Even with your eyes on the ground, his hidden behind his shades, it’s the most unnerving feeling in the world.

“John.”

“What?” You shout because fuck it; just fuck it all. “What the hell do you want me to say? How awkward this is? Because in case you haven’t noticed, you fucking pissed your pants!”

“No, really?” Dave deadpans. “I thought my goddamn water broke.”

You groan and clutch at your hair. “Look, I don’t know what to say, okay? I feel bad enough that I didn’t pull over in time!”

You know it’s a lie the moment you say it because you don’t regret it in the least, not after the stunning show he put on for you, inadvertent as it was. You’re frustrated, confused by your newfound kink and ashamed that you got off to your best friend wetting his pants. It’s not something you can tell him. Not this time.

Dave only stands there. After a few more moments of silence, he lets out a sigh.

“It’s not your fault.” He hooks his thumbs into his pockets and glances toward the trees. “Fucking assholes wouldn’t let you change lanes. I know. I’m just-“

“Pissed?” You almost slap yourself as Dave turns to you, his expression blank because way to go, Egbert, you fucked it up even more with a bad pun. If your wit was dead before, its corpse has now been thrown into a blender and chopped up into a B-movie smoothie.

But then Dave cracks a smile, and after a few seconds, his shoulders shake from silent laughter. You let out your breath. So you didn’t fuck it up this time. Gold star.

“That was horrible.” Dave shakes his head, trying to force the smile off his face. “I’m out of here. Drive to fucking Plattsburgh on your own. I don’t need your god-awful piss puns.”

You laugh as he waddles off into the woods, as if he’s trying to keep the soaked jeans from rubbing against him.

“You might want to change your pants first.”

Dave seems to agree, as he turns around and heads back toward the road. You remember that you left the keys in the ignition (oh god, you really did that) and sprint ahead of Dave, hoping that the car is still there because he will fucking kill you if someone stole his car. Shit is expensive.

Your speed is hindered by the disgusting feel of your pants - you are so going to wipe yourself off when Dave’s not looking - but you’re relieved to find the car is still there. The passenger side door is still open from Dave’s great escape.

**== > Dive headfirst and grab the keys from the ignition like a kickass action hero**

Unfortunately, you’re not a kickass action hero, so you flop unceremoniously across the seats. Your balls miraculously miss the gear shift by mere inches. However, the parking brake is digging into your stomach, so you groan and swat at the keys until you get a firm grasp and pull them out.

You hear him coming up the hill, so you scramble off the seats and out the car, keys in hand. Dave walks toward you with his hands in his pockets, poker face back in place, albeit still flushed. You admit he looks pretty cool for a guy that just pissed his pants.

He leans against the car as you open the hatchback’s trunk and scour for beach towels. You find a few and toss them at Dave, who catches them with ease, laying them out on the backseat. He climbs in and shuts the door. You hear the rustle of his jeans, the sound of his zipper as he undoes his pants and shimmies out of them.

You try to ignore this and look for his duffel bag, but there’s another sound now. You blush, your buck teeth biting your lip as you realize it’s the friction of the towel against his skin. Just on the other side of the seats, Dave is naked from the bottom down, wiping the piss off his legs. Though your eyes stay focused on the luggage, your mind wanders. You imagine the faint yellow stains on the towel as Dave cleans himself up, gliding over his ankles to his thighs until he reaches his crotch, rubbing all around.

It soon devolves into a fantasy of Dave pissing with the towel stuffed between his legs, whimpering in the same tone as he did from his previous accident.

Shit.

You feel the blood start to head south and quickly derail this train of thought. Your pants are disgusting enough as it is, and you don’t have the luxury of jerking off again since Dave won’t be distracted this time. He might be forgetful, but a trip to Boner City does not go unnoticed in the Strider household.

Well, unless you really have to pee.

You return to your search for Dave’s bag and lo-and-behold, it’s right in front of you. You struggle to pull it out of the luggage because the trunk is packed to max with all of Dave’s shit (he can’t go anywhere without his mix equipment, and god forbid you tell him to bring just one camera). Just as you’re about to open the bag, you glance at the hole it left and spy a strange suitcase. It’s a black with a built in lock, and the more you stare at the silver keyhole, the more peculiar it becomes.

“Hey Dave, what’s this?”

“What?” He peers over the backseat. “Oh, that? I’ve got my portable turntables in there.”

You raise an eyebrow and glance back to the suitcase. It baffles you that he insisted on bringing his full-size turntables (well, the pair that could actually fit in the car) when he had a travel-size pair all along.

Actually, now that you think about it, the fact that he brought his full-size turntables at all should have tipped you off that you weren’t catching a flight this morning. Perception is not your strong point.

“Hey, am I getting some pants soon, or are you going to make love to my turntables while my naked ass addresses the nation in a televised speech?”

You roll your eyes and dig through his bag, throwing a new pair of jeans and underwear in his direction. “You can’t be a little more patient?”

“And let you sneak a peek at my dong? Not a chance, you sick fuck.”

You flinch. Okay, that hurt way more than it should have. A few hours ago, you would’ve just rolled your eyes and played along, back to the cool kid and swooning schoolgirl routine. But now you’re just standing there, frozen in place, eyes locked on the floor of the trunk.

_You sick fuck._

It was just a joke. He didn’t mean anything by it. He doesn’t know. Besides, they’re just words. They can’t hurt you.

Listen to yourself, John Egbert - words can’t hurt you.

You shake your head and force yourself to get over it since Dave already is. You can hear him slipping on the clothes. The thought is not relevant to your interests, nope, not at all, so you grab the now empty towel bag to stow the soiled clothes.

At first, you plan to just toss them in without a care, but the wet spots stop you. You carefully lay them out to admire the stains. You’re convinced this is the most gorgeous piece of modern art in the world.

The boxers call to you especially and you marvel at the dark patch that takes up half the fabric. On a whim, you pick them up. The damp fabric seems to mold to your hand and it’s giving you strange urges.

**== > Wipe yourself off with Dave’s pissed boxers**

That is the worst idea in the world, but you do it anyway.

It gets the job done, but doesn’t feel as good as you thought it would. You chalk it up to the fact that they’ve lost their warmth by now. They just feel cold and wet, like your own boxers, which are slightly better without the slick jizz all over them, though still uncomfortable.

So, that was pretty much pointless and now your jizz is all over Dave’s underwear.

This better wash out.

**== > Put the clothes in the bag and get back on the road**

You put the clothes in the bag and shut the trunk, climbing into the passenger side. Dave’s already in the driver’s seat, and though there are traces of pink still on his face, he has regained his cool. With the doors shut, you hand him the keys and he starts up the car. He pulls back onto the road and you’re off once again, the embarrassing detour behind you.

You roll the window down and embrace the rush of air that blows past your face, wishing it were a sea breeze on a California beach, sand sifting between your toes. You glance at the lake on your right and watch the ripples on the surface, how the glare of the sun rolls over the calm. It’s all so soothing.

You start to nod off, your neck nestled in the headrest. The whir of the road and bursts of wind lull you as your mind wanders. Slowly, an image comes to your closed eyes. You see your hands, smaller than they are now, grip a blue sponge as the water trickles out.

Your brow scrunches up as you process this image. It’s familiar, ripped from a memory you left behind in a foggy frame of childhood. It only takes a moment for it to come back like a piss-strained slap.

**== >** **Remember old shit**

_You’re five years old, sitting in the bathtub as you splash around with your toys. The rubber ducks squeak as you pinch them. You giggle and throw them across the water. One of them smacks into a boat. The other lands near the blue sponge floating toward you in rhythm with the waves._

_As you lift it up from the sea, your wide grin dissolves into awe. The water gathers at the bottom of the sponge before flooding out. It soon turns into a concentrated stream, and for once in your young life, you don’t wonder why the water behaves this way. You just want to watch._

_You force the sponge back into the water, fascinated by the way it soaks up its surroundings. Again, you raise it up and revel in the flood. A voice in the back of your head, one you’ve assigned to the sponge, tells you it’s peeing._

_Something about this strikes a chord, so you repeat the cycle, soaking the sponge and watching as a dialogue runs through your head. The ducks tease him, the ships express their disgust, and the only thing Mr. Sponge can do is stand there in humiliation as he pees._

_Yes, this is the proper punishment._

_(For what?)_

_(For hurting you like that. They were so mean, so mean…)_

_You try to make the water flow out like a fountain, but it just trickles down again. Confused, you toss Mr. Sponge around, squeezing him as you thrust your arm forward, but nothing works. This frustrates you. How dare he not obey your orders._

_Your dad peeks into the bathroom and sees the grimace on your face as you stare into Mr. Sponge’s soul. When he asks what’s wrong, you tell him, and his response sums up to “Gravity’s a bitch.” But you aren’t satisfied since your piss can come out like a fountain, so Mr. Sponge’s should too. Dad says that’s because Mr. Sponge doesn’t have a penis, but you don’t believe him for a second because Mr. Sponge is very much a boy and thus should have a penis._

_The conversation takes a sober turn as Dad tells you not all boys have penises, a statement that won’t make sense to you until you’re in high school and learn just how wide the gender identity spectrum is._

_However, here you’re still a dumbass five-year-old, so you pout, cross your arms, and glare at Mr. Sponge. He needs to be punished. So you make him submit to his public humiliation, as public as an audience of rubber ducks and boats gets, and dip him in and out of the water. You decide to humiliate him again and again. That’ll teach him to disobey your orders._

_You’re so determined to complete this punishment properly that Dad has to remove you from the bath by force because you’ve been in there for hours._

_You spend the rest of the night indulging in fantasies of people wetting themselves. These thoughts evolve over the course of your life until you meet the kids who become your lifelong friends. You then repress the urges until they’re safely locked away, a masterful use of doublethink. You forget all about them._

_At least that was the plan._

**== >** **Reinstate the plan**

That’s not going to work and you know it. You might’ve been able to repress that shit in the past, but there’s no way you can block it out again. You’re too aware now. This is something you have to come to terms with.

Fuck.

==> **Spend the next three days in a daze**

The next three days go by like a flash. You spend most of the time in the car watching movies or conversing, taking the occasional nap.

However, it’s become impossible for you to block Dave’s accident out of your mind. You’re constantly in a daze, either fantasizing or trying to process the fact that you daydream about Dave wetting his pants. You’re still not used to the idea, but it’s already wearing you out: every time you try not to think about it, you fail and get horribly turned on.

Especially in the car. There is no safe haven for jerking off in the car.

You start to look forward to the hotels because it gives you the privacy you need, but even more, you wish you had someone to talk to about this.

On the fourth night, you are still several hours from Plattsburgh at half past ten, thanks to the compiled traffic over the course of the trip. Dave thinks he could drive all the way there, but you decide to stop at a motel so you can get a good night’s rest and continue on, tomorrow.

Of course, it’s hard to get a good night’s rest at a shitty motel, but that’s all you’re going to get unless you can find a way to sneak into the Hilton without paying.

Instead, you rent a room with one bed at the motel. Dave thinks this place is the shit. While it’s missing one of those flickering vacancy signs, it is the very definition of run-down. There are cracks in the walls, exposed pipes and brick, and a rickety elevator that would give The Stanley Hotel a run for its money.

As you walk into your room, you notice how dated the decor is. The peeling floral wallpaper and musty bedspread match the vintage television. However, you don’t really care. The bed is comfy enough and you sigh as you flop onto it, rubbing your face into the sheets.

Then you realize you’ve likely just given yourself an indirect cum facial because plenty of people have fucked in this bed.

Dave calls the shower, and you let him, pulling out your laptop instead. You’re pleasantly surprised by the free Wi-Fi, and it soon becomes clear the owners scrimped on atmosphere for technology because the signal is perfect.

You glance back at the bathroom, listen to the water run before you switch your gaze to the laptop screen. The Pesterchum icon beckons you and you click it with slight hesitation, your pulse racing as it logs you in.  

Rose is online. Your finger rests on the touch pad, over the “Pester” button. Even though you’re terrified of telling her, you need to talk to someone. Given her experience in psychoanalysis, she’s your best shot.

But you don’t hit the “Pester” button. Your pulse is pounding. In fact, you’re even having trouble breathing. You sit there for two minutes, internally freaking out as you try to will your finger to hit the button already.

The screen goes black. Great, now you have to rub the touchpad to wake it up again. You groan as you tap the pad, which not only wakes it up, but succeeds in hitting the “Pester” button.

Well, shit.

**== >** **Pester Rose**

 

You take a deep breath and brace yourself for what you have to do; what you _must_.

Okay, that sounded way too dramatic. You need to stop watching all those shitty action movies.

Shitty? You mean “awesome.”

**== > Shut up and tell her already**

 

You know Rose needs some sort of context, but you promised Dave you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened. He would be so pissed if you told her. Even more, you don’t want her to know. It’s a dirty little secret between the two of you and as far as you’re concerned it should stay that way.

However, you need her help. You sigh and decide to tweak the story a bit.

 

**== >** **Flip your shit**

You are currently flipping your shit.

That’s really all there is to say on the matter.

**== > Continue pestering Rose**

 

**== > Scour the dark realms of the internet for piss porn**

You bury your face in your hands and groan. There’s no way you’re going to look up piss porn. Not only do you not want to be caught with that on your browser, but you don’t want it. You have far too much Dave fodder in your head to resort to that yet.

Oh shit. You shouldn’t have thought that.

“Egbert.”

You jump with a manly squeal, the manliest squeal you can muster. Dave stands across the room, fresh from his shower and already cloaked in a t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. There’s that familiar flush over his skin, a result of the hot water and steam, and you wonder if it continues on beneath his clothes.

Shit, you really shouldn’t have thought that.

“Hey, you okay?” Dave asks, his thumbs in his pajama pockets. You can’t help but wish he’d pull them down a little more so you could see the lines of his pelvis, the trail of hair teasing you as it disappears beneath the fabric.

Shit, shit, shit, stop. You need to stop. Dave is your best bro and these are not appropriate bro thoughts. Not that you’ve had many of those recently, but that’s beyond the point. The point is that right now, you need to think appropriate bro thoughts.

**== > Think appropriate bro thoughts like pushing Dave against the wall and grinding against him as he moans your name**

Jesus Christ, come and put you out of your misery.

You close your laptop, but keep it over your crotch to hide your hard-on. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just talking to Rose.”

He chuckles and climbs onto the bed, placing his sunglasses on the bedside table. “Jesus,” he says, eyes closed and arms tucked behind his head, “no wonder you look like Mitt Romney with a bad case of the m-preg.”

You laugh, but your gaze drops to the sliver of skin peeking out from his shirt. You swallow. The skin still has a light flush to it from the shower, a raw pink, and it looks so smooth. You can’t even see the hair, but you figure it’s so light and fine that it disappears against his skin. It’s so enticing.

No, you shouldn’t think that, you should stop staring, but it’s so hard to fight it. The teasing skin entices you to go further, to push his shirt up and glide your hand all over the smooth skin of his abdomen. You imagine him arching up into the touch, coaxing your palm to move south as he begs for contact.

You comply, your hand sliding down between his legs and oh god, the moan he makes when you clamp down on his bulge. You just want to ravage him; punish him-

**== > Snap out of it**

You snap out of it in the most dignified way possible.

In other words, you flip the fuck out and fall off the bed. Thankfully, your laptop slid onto the blanket before you took a dive off Spazz Mountain, so it’s safe.

“Whoa, what’s the rush?” Dave asks, leaning over the bed to stare at your sprawled body. “They making another _Ghostbusters_ movie?”

“Very funny,” you mumble, doing your best to hide your condition, but your cock is throbbing in rhythm with your rapid heartbeat. “I’m going to take a shower.”

You rush off toward the bathroom before he can say anything else. The moment you close the door, you strip off your clothes and start up the shower, thankful that it doesn’t take too long for the water to heat up. You jump inside and embrace the water, your glasses abandoned on the counter.

Your hands run over your body in the trails of the cascade; they slip down to your cock and begin to stroke. It aches with arousal as your fingers glide up and down, your thumb rubbing at the head. You search for a fantasy, but the moment the visions flash into your head, you try to force them out again.

It doesn’t work. You keep going back to Dave’s crotch, and when you evict those thoughts from the boarding house of your mind, in come the images of him pissing himself. It’s just so hot when Dave does it.

No, that’s not it. It’s just that it’s so hot when it’s Dave.

Wait, no, that’s not what you mean either. It’s just that…Dave….Dave is….

_Dave is so hot._

You lean against the tile and slide down the slope of the tub, your breath shuddering. You feel as if you just uttered the dirtiest sentence in the history of mankind, if only in your head. You want to say you can’t believe you just thought that, that it’s impossible for such a thing to cross your mind.

But you know this isn’t the first time. It’s far from the first time and you are so sick ( _you sick fuck_ ) of denying everything, of trying to convince yourself that you don’t know what’s been going on.

Even you can’t be that naive.

**== > Admit it already**

You admit it. Ever since that sex dream, you’ve slowly noticed your growing attraction to Dave. Instead of accepting it, you pretended it didn’t exist. You thought that if you just tried hard enough to suppress it, it would just go away.

Well, doesn’t that reasoning sound familiar.

So here you are, getting off to your best friend in the shower, and you know what? You don’t see any point in fighting it. Maybe Rose is right. They’re just thoughts; they’re not hurting anyone.

With that, you bite down on one hand and continue the strokes, crossing the threshold into the dark realms of your mind.

**== > Enter the dark realms of your mind**

You instantly go back to the day of the accident. There’s Dave, sitting to your right and squirming with his hands between his legs. You watch him writhe in urgency, his hands clasped tight between his legs, but the story’s a little different this time. You decide to take some liberty with your memories.

There’s a lot more begging, a lot more whining as he pleads for you to pull over so he doesn’t pee his pants. You know he’d never say these things - he has far too much pride for that - but you don’t care. You want to wear him down until he’s a hot, humiliated, piss-soaked mess. You want to break him. You want to punish him.

The traffic has stopped completely, and the two of you are sealed off from the rest of the world. You take advantage of this immediately, climbing over to the passenger side and straddling his legs. You slip off his sunglasses and toss them aside, staring him down. He looks so vulnerable without his shades, no shield to hide behind, as exposed as the red irises in your field of sight.

To aid in this, you force your knees between his thighs and wrench them apart. Dave groans, maintaining his grip and begging once more. You love how the desperation takes over all his other instincts, pride and dignity thrown to the wind in some hope you’ll give him the release. You’re in complete control and he knows it.

So, it only pleases you more to hear the way he whimpers when you grace your fingers over his abdomen. You outline the bulge of his bladder under his skin and he trembles under your touch, fearing that at any second you’ll make him wet his pants.

“Please,” he pleads again, “please, I have to pee.”

You smile and lightly press his bladder with your thumb. He gasps and tenses up, biting his lip as he grips his crotch tighter. He tries to bend forward, to close his thighs again, but you keep him spread-eagle. You won’t let him prolong it. You’re so turned on, your cock painful in how it throbs, and you came here for a show.

You press harder now and Dave keens, head thrown back as he writhes, his restless legs bouncing in desperation.

“Please! John, I’m going to-” He cuts off with a sharp cry and you force his hands from his crotch, cupping his balls with one hand, the other still against his bladder. You see a few spurts soak his jeans as he grips the sides of the seat, whimpering.

“John, it’s coming out, _please_!”

You groan at the sound of his voice, your cock twitching, but you shake your head and deliver the final blow with a strong jab.

Dave whines as his bladder lets go, and yes, there’s that gorgeous hiss, the urine racing through his jeans. You watch the flood spread over the denim until the fabric can’t hold anymore, the yellow flow spilling onto your hand. You smirk and squeeze his soaked crotch, reveling in the sharp gasp he makes, the pee running between your fingers. It puddles under his thighs, just like you wanted.

You click your tongue and, with the most patronizing smirk ever, ask, “Didn’t your bro ever teach you not to pee your pants?”

“I couldn’t hold it,” he whimpers, eyes shut in shame, and you savor the humiliation on his face. It only arouses you further, so you climb onto his lap and take him by the mouth, grinding into his crotch as he pees. You’re not sure what’s better - the moans stifled by your kiss or the wet warmth slicking up the friction of your hips. You love the squelch that results and the sounds, the sounds that leave his lips as you suck at his neck are so hot, going straight to your twitching cock-

A sudden convulsion brings you back to reality. Your hand becomes frantic, stroking so fast that you can hear the squelch of your movements, your muffled moans restrained by the hand between your teeth. The sensations grow more and more intense as your hips buck in climactic hysteria, and it isn’t long before your head snaps back with the twitch.

You stifle the scream in the back of your throat as you come. The shudders run through your body, dulling off as your hurried breath returns to soft panting. You sigh and lean back against the cool tile. It still surprises you how strong your orgasm is now that you’ve discovered this kink.

_You sick fuck._

The shame creeps into your veins. You hide your face in your hands, groaning. What the hell is wrong with you? Dave is just on the other side of the wall. If he knew what you were doing (oh god, your face is burning), you might as well call the friendship over because fuck, it’s hard to hang with someone that’s always thinking about making you pee yourself.

You try to tell yourself that Rose is right, that they’re just thoughts, that there’s nothing wrong with you, but you’re having a hard time believing it. Maybe you could deal with having a piss fetish. Maybe you could deal with jerking off to your best friend.

But jerking off to piss fantasies of your best friend? That’s a bit harder to take.

Your throat starts to choke up. No. No, no, no, you are not going to cry over this in a shitty motel where Dave can probably hear you through the walls. No, you’re just going to finish up your shower by washing your hair because that’s what men do. They wash their fucking hair with…apple-scented shampoo.

Is this Dave’s? There’s no way it belongs to the motel. They didn’t even give you a fucking bar of soap. You guys brought your own soap. Well, Dave did. Actually, looking at the bottles lined up in the shower, he brought everything you could possibly need - shampoo, soap, body wash, shaving cream, and razors. It looks like he really _did_ put a lot of thought into this trip.

You open the cap of the shampoo and squeeze it gently, trying to sample the fruity scent, wondering if this is what Dave’s hair smells like-

“Shit!”

You squeeze it too hard and it shoots into your eye. Jesus Christ, does it fucking sting and, oh look, you’re crying. Everyone, all together now: pa-the-tic.

You just hope Dave can’t hear you sobbing through the walls.

**== > Dave: Be the guy who can hear John sobbing through the walls**


	3. ==> Dave: Be the guy who can hear John sobbing through the walls

CHAPTER III

**== > Dave: Be the guy who can hear John sobbing through the walls**

It's a shitty motel, so it's no surprise you can hear John sobbing through the walls. 

In fact, you could hear him whacking off pretty well (he thinks he knows how to be silent, the poor boy), and now you're fucking freaked out over the sudden change in the soundtrack. Gone are the hushed squelches and moans, replaced with unsettlingly ridiculous wails. 

You wonder if you should be concerned that you were barely bothered by listening to John masturbate. 

Jesus, it's hard to watch TV when your best bro's bawling like he just stepped out of a _Lifetime_ movie. Instead of knocking on the wall and awkwardly asking him what the deal is, you continue to watch a documentary on mummification and try to ignore the sounds coming from the bathroom.

So far, that isn't working out too well. The worst part is that you have no idea what could have set him off. There are few things that can ruin the afterglow of a good wank and from your own experience, it is thought. 

But you know, oh god do you know how words can linger -- or rather how _her_ words can linger and infiltrate a positive moment at the drop of a Freudian slip. 

You pull out your iPhone and log onto Pesterchum. Rose has some explaining to do. 

**== > Pester Rose**

** **

Your brow furrows. That's bullshit. You might fuck with him a lot but when your bro's in a bind, you've got his back and John knows it.

When he got wasted at that party a few months back, you took him outside and  held his hair as he hurled. Not that he needed someone to do that -- the only way those chunks were ending up in his hair was if he blacked out and hit the ground. You just wanted to make fun of all those 90s high school flicks.

Okay, so holding his hair made you feel a little better, as odd as it sounds. You felt like you had to do something other than sit back and watch the contents of his stomach fertilize the grass. Besides, John understood it was meant to be a comforting gesture, even if you yanked too hard on the first try.

You took him back to the apartment and when he woke up the next morning, there you were in a 50s-style apron, Mrs. Lalonde's world-renowned hangover remedy in hand. You kept the recipe after the first and only time you ever got drunk (and wasn't that mortifying, with you sobbing over the phone to Rose of all people, Jesus Christ. You swore off drinking for the rest of your life, and that's worked out pretty well so far).

The point is that John can trust you with anything, so there's no reason for him to hide this from you. 

But the more you stare at Rose's words, the more you read between the lines and realize she isn't judging this for herself. John told her not to tell you.

The thought fills you with dread and dangerous hope.

** **

**== > Go back to watching the documentary**

You turn off the TV. You can't go back to watching the documentary, as you're way too pissed to take in the gorgeous process of embalmment. You just want to flip a table.

**== > Flip a table**

There aren't any tables in the room, dipshit. So, you flip a pillow instead. It's not nearly as satisfying.

Frustrated, you flip another pillow. You make it your mission to flip every pillow in the room.

Unfortunately, you soon realize you have already accomplished your goal. 

One bed, two pillows, and a heaping pile of frustration are all you have left as you cross your arms and let out a low hiss. You don't know who to be mad at: Rose for not telling you, John for demanding she not tell you, or yourself for getting so worked up over this. This isn't cool. This isn't you.

No, this _is_ you. It's just not who you want to be. You'd much rather be the hot stud in all those jokes you crack with John.

 **== > Be the hot stud** 

You wish. Wouldn't it be great if you could just switch on your Patrick Swayze genes and turn John into a quivering pile of sex jello at your feet?

After all, you weren't lying when you told him he was on your to-do list.

You'd planned to answer him, say, "Oh yeah, I want you mackin' on me all the time, man, you're just that hot." but you were afraid the sarcasm would slip out of your voice.

You were afraid he'd hear the desperation behind your words, the sound of phantom fingers clawing against his skin as they scrambled for contact, captured in the hitch of your breath.

So, you'd put on the poker face that said, " _No, not literally, you dumbass_." because you didn't want to actually say it. That was the key to your mask -- imply you're not interested, but don't ever say it, just in case.

And the basis of that whole analogy, you being the cool guy and John your swooning schoolgirl? Well, it's wrong. You're the fucking schoolgirl. 

Groaning, you roll over and bury your face in the pillow, internally whining over how much you want him, while simultaneously wanting to punch all those "kawaii doki-dokis" out of your system. It actually sickens you to feel this way, as if you're proving all those shitty romance movies right. 

You're not, though. You didn't meet John in a coffee shop, instantly lock eyes and tell yourself that he's "the one." Accidental pen pals, star-crossed lovers, hated enemies that blossomed into lovers -- you were none of those things. 

You met over the internet; you became friends. It was years before you met in-person, but even as you talked over Pesterchum, between the banter and biting jokes, you had an inkling it would develop into something more. You didn't bother worrying about it, telling yourself that you felt what you felt and if that changed, well, it changed.

And so, you slowly watched yourself fall in love with him. 

It fucking sucked. 

 **== > Whine into your pillow** 

That sounds like a pathetic and extremely un-ironic thing to do given the situation, but you do it anyway. Sometimes, you just need to let go of your irony shtick and feel the full brunt of your emotions.

Okay, fuck that. Emotions suck. 

You whine for about three seconds until you hear the bathroom door crack open. You jump and immediately shut up. Man, you didn't even hear the water shut off. That's what you get for losing yourself in a spiral of self-pity. 

As you turn over and cross your arms behind your head, you see John walk into the room. As you expected, his eyes are red, but you don't say anything. If you asked, he could pass it off as a slip of shampoo. How convenient.

You try not to stare at the way his _Ghostbusters_ t-shirt conforms to his body, still damp from the shower. Instead, you turn off the nightstand lamp to deter such thoughts, pulling back the bed covers. He takes the left, you take the right, but you swipe the blanket before he can even touch it. You wrap yourself in it, slowly surrounded by heat as you roll onto your side. 

You can feel John's stare boring into your back, accentuated by the silence. He gives up quick, rustling up the sheets instead. The blanket burrito is yours, all yours. No one else is allowed to have it and he goddamn knows it.

John tosses and turns, but eventually settles down on his back. A few more minutes and you hear a subtle snore. Of course, you're still awake -- you've always had trouble falling asleep. You wish you could stay up all night and just talk, lying on your sides, laughing your goddamn asses off. Maybe a bit of cuddling, a bit of kissing, a bit of grinding. 

But no, John is asleep and he doesn't want you.

John and his stupid buck teeth, his wispy black hair and slight stomach pudge despite the toned arms just inches away from you -- they all don't want you.

You're not really sure why you like him. Sure, you could list off all the traits, but that doesn't explain why you like them. It's not a train of thought you're too eager to board, thanks to the common Freudian derailments that would plant a permanent smirk on Rose's face.

Of course, Rose has already made her own speculations. She's suggested that growing up with Bro, who pushed you to the limit and never let up on testing you, could've caused you to like people who gave you a hard time, hence your attraction to John. That, you can sort of understand. You just don't get why she has to turn it into a spiel about the Oedipus complex, when you are nine-million percent sure you don't want to bone your bro. 

Though he does have some bangin' arms, like John.

God, you have no idea why you're so quick to open up to her these days, especially since you guys are almost like siblings with all the bickering you do. But ever since that drunken meltdown over the phone, you don't see a reason not to. Of course, there are some things you will never tell Rose, not even on your deathbed.

And one of those things is the fact that you pissed yourself a few days ago.

God, there are not enough words in the world to describe how fucking mortifying that was. It was horrible. There's a huge difference between "I looked so un-cool getting smothered in smuppet ass" and "I just fucking wet myself like a goddamn toddler in front of my best friend." You prefer your humiliation to have as little emotional distress as possible.

So, you'd take the smut puppets any day. It's the reason you pulled the cord of that ceiling compartment when you were thirteen, already knowing a shit ton of smuppets would smother you with their plush rumps. Man, how ridiculous you looked. You spend so much time trying to impress people, striving to maintain your "cool guy" facade, but it excites you to think of someone stripping it away.

Often, you find yourself playing right into John's hands when he deploys his pranks. Sometimes you know what's going to happen, sometimes you're struck clueless. He's always scheming up some new way to get you, and that's for the better. He would notice if you "fell" for the same prank one too many times.

Out of all the shenanigans he pulls, the best is the bucket of apple juice he sets above the door to your apartment. It would be a perfect excuse for him to slip off your soaked clothes and rock against you until you're keening for him, but no, he never takes the opportunity when you present it. That teasing douche.

You wish you knew how to break that this stalemate.

**== > Jerk off and wake him up with your moans**

That plan is bound to end in humiliating failure, and you are not a fan of the latter. Still, it's a tempting idea. You've always been drawn to daring sex acts. Hell, you've even gotten away with a few. It's as if you're challenging someone to catch you, and when you succeed the thrill is overwhelming.

Someday, you want to be caught. It's just not tonight.

There's a lot of temptation running through your veins. The more you lay curled up in the covers, the more you want to roll over and drape yourself over him, breathing in tandem. You have the urge to trail your fingers over his skin, from his collarbones to his thighs. You feel the urge to grind into his crotch as he claws into your back.

You also feel the urge to bleat like a goat. It's an ironic notion you've meant to fulfill since you were thirteen, but you can never find the right moment, and this isn't it. Although it would be a perfect revenge for all the pranks you've suffered through, it would be a shame to wake John up from his sleep. You look John over, from the quick rise of his chest to the knit brow above his eyes and...

Wait.

Hold the fucking hamburger phone. 

Your jaw drops as you take in the sight because Jesus fucking Christ, the gods are merciful tonight. Someone's popping a tent, and it sure as hell isn't you.

"Looks like the circus is in town," you whisper with a smirk, cradling your chin in your palm. It's not every night you snatch front row seats to such a show. Not to mention you had the starring role the last time you caught him like this. Just the thought sends the adrenaline rushing.

John Egbert's having a wet dream. 

Hell fucking yes.

**== > John: Dream a little dream of Dave**

You're not really sure how you got here. Last you remember, you were working side by side with Liam Neeson, blowing shit up in a last-dash mission to save your salamander daughter from the Batterwitch.

But now you're in a fancy hotel room with none other than Dave Strider, his wrists tied to the headboard and an obvious hard-on between his spread legs. 

You decide you're not gonna question it. 

You tease the surface of his skin, brushing your hands over his chest. As you lean down to kiss him, you aim for his neck instead, suckling just above his collarbones. Dave groans, the bed creaking as he pulls against the restraints. Chuckling, you glide your tongue up the side of his neck. He shudders in response.

The curled lamp beside the bed seems to seems to grow brighter, highlighting the pale white of his skin, though it's begun to flush red.

With his pulse racing under your tongue, you run your hand down the length of his torso. You slowly slink your fingers down to rub his inner thigh. He flinches under your touch, his fists curled, groaning as he tries to jerk your hand toward his crotch.

Instead, you stop touching him altogether.

He growls, and you feel the glare behind his shades. He tugs at the fabric that binds him to the headboard, but they won't budge. You just laugh.

"Sorry," you say with a smirk, arms across your chest. "Guess you'll have to beg!"

He almost snarls, tries to pry himself from the restraints to no avail. Still, you know he has too much pride to let you humiliate him so easily. You'll just have to wear him down.

You lower your head and place your tongue on his hip, teasing along the line of his pelvis. Dave groans, tries to buck his hips, but you force them back down with your hand. You carefully trail your tongue over his skin, getting close enough to his cock to make his breath hitch, but pulling away before you reach it.

You do this over and over, savoring the groans, growls, even the passionate string of threatening curses. His frustrated whines, strained and desperate, go straight to your cock and you swear, there's nothing like the sight of someone about to break.

He writhes about, wrists taut against the headboard in his resistance, the sheets a wrinkled mess beneath him. The lamp matches his every movement, twisting and jerking like every muscle, every bone. Its bulb glows brighter with every fleeting second, flooding the room with yellow light until you can barely discern Dave's body from the sheets. You feel yourself fading away...

 **== > Fade away** 

The scenery shifts and suddenly you're in a red phone booth on an abandoned concrete road, not a soul in sight as you pin Dave against the glass, hips grinding together. You don't even remember where you were before. As far as you know, you were in the phone booth the whole time, making out and savoring the friction of your jeans; it all feels so surreal. 

The weather changes in an instant, heavy rain streaming up the sides of the phone booth, splattering on the lonely gray sky above you. It floods upwards, silver rivers colliding with the surface of the clouds, leaving their stains behind. You've never heard the rain so loud.

Dave tenses up. You can feel it in his lips, traveling down his whole frame. As your leg brushes his inner thigh, you can feel him shiver. You grind your knee into his crotch and he jumps with a gasp, thighs clasped tight around your leg. Taking that as a go-ahead, you rut against him, your own cock brushing his hip.

You pull back to catch your breath, taking the moment to savor the tent in his jeans, the way his chest heaves beneath the fitted t-shirt, the slight blush obscured by his sunglasses.

You slip off his shades, taking pleasure in snatching away his only shield, the one that lets him hide from you. It will never change, you're sure, but that just makes the vulnerable moments all the more sweet.

"The rain's too loud."

"So?"

Dave glances up at you, then to the side, his red eyes glowing amidst the gray surroundings.

"So, I have to pee."

Just the words cause your cock to twitch, and you can't stop the small groan that comes out of your mouth. Your hands find his wrists and separate them, plastering them to the chilled glass. Dave falls back in the routine, sucking at your mouth, biting at the corners. It's more than satisfying.

The longer you stand there making out, the more desperate he gets, writhing in the midst of your kisses, his legs crossing, squeezing together. He gives in to bouncing, bending, and from the red color flooding his face, you can tell it's digging into his pride. Soon, he can't even kiss you back, all of his focus directed to the floodgates between his legs.

Not that you're upset. The sight of him struggling to control his bladder is more than enough for you.

A frantic tone seeps into his voice, his furrowed brow and twisted lips only adding to your arousal. Your knee digs into his crotch and his fingers return the favor by clawing into your back. A quick gasp and his breathing quickens.

Dave grips your shoulders even harder, bouncing, his hips rolling against your thigh. A strangled groan escapes him, tapering off into a pitiful whimper. Tears form in the corners of his eyes.  You don't say anything, just watch him squirm violently with his back to the glass. The streams of water mark him with their shadows, constant currents traveling up the topography of his face. His skin glows beneath the radiance that pokes through the clouds. The rain is so loud.

His broken moan makes your breath hitch, and the pulsing in your groin grows stronger. You feel the throb of your heartbeat in your throat. Your veins rush with adrenaline, your lungs painful with air. You're so close, too close, and you're not going to come until you reduce him to a hot mess.

"Let go," you order, low and rough. You hear a choked sob of relief.

A strong wave of pleasure disperses under your skin, your cock twitching up a storm, and when the contractions start, you know you can't stop it.

The rain is so loud.

**== > Wake the fuck up**

You wake up with a start, eyes wide open and pulse racing as the raw tingling in your groin starts to fade away. You don't need to look under the sheets to know what's happened, not with your vivid memory of the dream.

That, and your cum actually seeped through the sheets for everyone to see. "Everyone" meaning the one and only Dave Strider, also known as the guy you just had a wet dream about.

Splendid.

Slowly, you glance in his direction. You find him sliding on his shades and once they're perched on the bridge of his nose, he turns to you.

"Good dream?" Dave asks, an insufferable smirk plastered onto his face. Even in the dark, you can tell he's just basking in your humiliation. You do not need this right now. You so do not need this right now because god fucking damn it, you may have bought him those shades, but you've never hated them more in your life.

**== > Take them off**

You snatch them from his face before he can even blink, and when he does, you have the privilege of watching the shock unfold. There you are, dangling the sunglasses, swinging them back and forth with the rotation of your finger. There he is, staring at you as he starts to process what just happened. A frown begins to form.

You've pissed him off. Good.

"...Give them back." He says softly, extending an expectant hand. You purse your lips as if contemplating it, then slowly shake your head. His eyes narrow.

"I'm fucking serious. Give them back."

"Sorry!" You tease, sporting the biggest shit-eating grin you can manage. "Guess you'll have to beg."

You see the visceral flinch in his body, the tight grip of the blanket between his fingers. His shoulders tense, he bites his lip. The anger leaves his eyes, and instead you find vulnerability.

You have no idea what you've just done. It's probably better that way.

"What?" you ask, confused by his reaction. You expected a biting response before he tackled you and tried to take his shades back by force. A bit of wrestling, and you'd both be laughing again. You could head off to the bathroom, clean up, and forget this ever happened.

However, he won't say anything. All he does is stare at the sheets, and you really don't need someone studying your jizz right now. Groaning, you toss his shades on the bed and storm off to the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

The wall beckons you. Despite the strong desire to get the disgusting slime out of your pants, you give in to its demands rather easily, resting against the hard surface, your head hung in shame as you study the grimy tiles. Really, what _aren't_ you giving in to these days?

It was only a few days ago that you discovered this fetish and it's already forcing you onto unstable ground. You feel like you're navigating a minefield every time you talk to Dave. After all, you can't stop fantasizing about him, to the point where you finally had to admit that yes, you have a thing for the Strider, you have for a while, and you knew it all along. Now, your body has betrayed you, giving you the second wet dream in your life starring your best friend. You can't win.

Even worse, you have to leave the bathroom eventually and you are one-hundred percent against that course of action.

When you glance up from the floor, you find your own stupid face staring back at you. You decide that if you were president, you would outlaw all mirrors. How dare it reflect your humiliation so plainly? No one wants to see that miserable face.

Your underwear feels even more disgusting than before, so you finally tear off a few sheets of toilet paper. As you wipe away the jizz with a strained grimace, you decide it's time you delve into the world of amateur piss porn. You have to stop fantasizing about your best friend. You never should've given in to it in the first place. 

God, can't you just be someone else?

**== > Be Dave**

Your name is Dave Strider and you want to punch John Egbert and his glorious wet-dreaming dick for giving you a boner right now.

That little fucker.

**== > Give up and go to sleep**

Well, you _could_ do that if you didn't, you know, _have a raging boner._

Jesus, why did John have to order you to beg for your shades back? Tonight's just been one blow after another, and your pride's got a concussion like a mole at the county fair.

You'd come up with a better simile, but you're too goddamn turned on right now.

**== > Jack off**

Oh yeah, let's just slick up the ol' spam porpoise when John's about to come out of the bathroom. Let him catch you in the act, spread-eagled and whining his name. Might as well strip off your clothes, tie a ribbon around your neck (and other limbs, for that matter), and offer your body as a virgin sacrifice to his divine dick.

Well, that could work if you were, you know, _actually a virgin_ , but you don't really want to think about your sexual history right now. Better to save that for another time.

**== > Go to sleep**

You've already been over this.

**== > Jack off**

For fuck's sake, are those really your only options? You're just full of bright ideas tonight, aren't you?

**== > Go to sleep**

No. You will not go to sleep. You will instead lay here in the agony known only to those with a libido as rampant as the Plague, as vast and unbearable as a journey through the Sahara with Adam Sandler as your tour guide

**== > You okay there?**

Your name is Dave Strider and your boner is slowly driving you insane.

**== > Just go to sleep**

You know what, fine. You're exhausted from all this arguing anyway.

You close your eyes and search for the perfect boner kill, and before you know it, there's smuppets everywhere. Their nose-schlongs jab your face, plush rumps bouncing all over your body, and Cal's high-pitched chuckle pierces your ears. You can feel the stares of their soulless eyes boring into your bones.

Well, you've vanquished your boner, but now you're mildly disturbed. You're used to falling asleep in such a state after living with Bro, so it shouldn't be a problem.

Shifting onto your side, you feel the drowsiness take over. You barely register the creak of the bathroom door, the dip in the bed as John climbs back in. He squirms under the sheets until he settles down, finally comfortable.

With your back to him, slowly drifting off to sleep, you can't see him -- how he watches your shoulders rise and fall with a flicker of want in his eyes; how he glances at the sheets with a furrowed brow, shame gnawing at his conscience.

Instead, you fall asleep with the after-image of smuppets schlongs burned into your brain.

**== > Wake up and get on the road**


End file.
